Sweet Suicide
by Lola Witherbottoms
Summary: What was there to live for anymore? There was no rhyme or reason to what he did. He was fooling everyone, including himself. Entreri, Drizzt, and Jarlaxle, examining the ruins of their lives, wonder what they're living for.
1. Artemis Entreri

Artemis Entreri sat on his bed, staring absentmindedly at his hands. They were hard and callused from years of carrying a sword and dagger. They were scarred from duels and battles. They had been covered in the warm, slick blood of countless enemies and victims.

He had killed so many—out of anger, hatred, pain, pity, sadness. He had even been paid to do it. So many dead at his hands… He had taken away lives, and had watched as the last remnants of life left their terrified eyes. And through it all, he had been as hard and unyielding as the steel of his sword. Unfeeling. His victims had deserved to die.

He had been taken into the Guild at an early age, so long ago he almost couldn't remember. He couldn't remember his training, or the boys with whom he had trained. He couldn't remember his first dagger. He couldn't even remember his first kill.

So many things he had forgotten…and those forgotten memories made up _him_. He didn't know who he was. What had he become, exactly, if he couldn't remember anything? With no memories, he was a soulless, lifeless creature with no reason to keep existing.

How had he come to this pathetic, indifferent life? How had he become so cruel and coldhearted? He had been born the same way as everyone else, after all. He had had a mother who loved him, who gave him everything when she herself had nothing. But he had grown up among cruel and coldhearted men. That was where he had learned the mantra: live or die. Live by any means possible.

He was an assassin.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Live by any means possible.

He was nothing but an instrument to those he served. Those people hired him for their own ends. He did his job as expected, and he took their money.

Artemis Entreri had always taken pride in never following the flighty whims of aging guildmasters. At least, that was how he had thought of it. Not anymore. Now he knew that he was no better than a common slave, catering to the needs and wants of those better than him.

He hated himself.

He wasn't an old man—not by any means. But he had lived the equivalent of a long, hard life, and he suffered. His joints, muscles, and bones ached from his weary road. His body was wearing down. His mind was barely clinging to the frayed edges of his sanity.

What was there to live for anymore?

Drizzt Do'Urden had been that reason. Jarlaxle had been that reason. Now that there was no one left to care for, be it hatred or love, what was that reason?

He hated seeing what he truly was—a blackened husk of a human with a silent, empty hole where his heart should have been. He was nothing. He wanted to die.

He drew his dagger from its sheath, examining the fine edges. It would do.

Without thinking, he let the blade bite deep into his wrist and slid it slowly across.


	2. Drizzt Do'Urden

Drizzt Do'Urden sat alone atop a tall cliff on the side of Kelvin's Cairn. It was summer in Icewind Dale, the only time of year it grew even remotely warm, when the balmy breezes reached up to the tops of the mountains. But to the drow, every day held the chill of winter snows.

He used to sit with Catti-brie beneath the trees that lined the shores of the lake. They would look up at the clouds going by, calling out their shapes and laughing at each other playfully. They had been so happy.

She had been the first, so many years ago he no longer cared to count. She had still been young by the measure of any race, but the chill found her. She had a raging fever but was always cold. She became delirious, unable to recognize him—her husband. He stayed with her night and day, feeding her, washing her, caring for her. She had gotten better too—well enough to sit with him on Kelvin's Cairn, wrapped in blankets and clutching a mug of hot dwarvish medicine between her frail hands. She still coughed, but laughed with him and kissed him, and fell asleep in his arms.

And two days later she was dead.

Bruenor was the next. He had been out on the tundra, returning from a market near Ten-Towns when a polar worm burst from the soil, hungry mouth chomping. When the dwarf king didn't return for two days, search parties were sent out, headed by Drizzt, Wulfgar, and Thibbledorf Pwent.

Drizzt had found Bruenor's mangled body, already being picked apart by the carrion birds. Sobbing, he had wrapped the body in his cloak and carried it back to the halls, heedless of the blood that drenched him. Wulfgar had found the worm, the king's axe still embedded in its jaw. He had slain the creature and brought the weapon back. Bruenor was laid to rest beside his beloved daughter.

And then Regis. He had taken a boat out on Maer Dualdon to fish. Even now, no one really knew what happened to him—he had been alone when he died. It was assumed he fell over the side of the small craft, for whatever reason, and drowned.

After that, Drizzt was very nearly dead inside, reeling from the loss of his wife and two dear friends. His nights were long and sleepless, his days senseless and muddled.

Everything was mechanical.

There was no rhyme or reason to what he did anymore.

But Wulfgar had been there for him, and that helped. The man became his constant companion, and helped to make his existence at least tolerable.

And now even he was gone, not yet three days ago. He had been the only one to die a natural death. He had lived a good life, had married a wonderful woman and fathered two beautiful daughters, and had welcomed a grandson into the world. He had been happy.

But now there really wasn't anything for Drizzt to live for anymore.

So he sat atop the cliff, looking down the sheer, rocky face to the hard-packed, as-yet-unmelted snows far below. The warm breeze blew across his dark face, but still he shivered.

Nothing could heal the deep wound in his heart.

He brought out the small vial of Oil of Impact from his cloak and uncorked it. He swallowed the viscous liquid quickly, ignoring the sting of the acidy substance in the back of his throat. He stood.

He looked down only once, and then he jumped.


	3. Jarlaxle Baenre

Jarlaxle Baenre stood before the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, staring at his reflection. He was dressed in his finest clothes—a silk shirt and vest, with long trousers tucked into the tops of his tall boots, a cape over one shoulder, and his magnificent hat on his head.

With a sigh of disgust he tossed the hat and cape aside. It was all just a show, and not even for his benefit. Clothes couldn't fool him, but they could fool everybody else. They all thought he was so collected, so calm. They thought he knew what he was doing, what he wanted.

They were all so wrong.

They had no clue.

He had learned how to put on a front, to smile and be suave and unflappable. Everyone knew him as the drow that knew what he wanted and who had the means to get it. They all thought that he had everything anyone could ever want in their lives. A home, a bed, servants, women, _everything_.

But he wasn't happy. He could keep up his facade and make others happy, but he couldn't say the same for himself. He hadn't been happy in a long time.

It was so hard just to get up every morning. But he did it because he needed the routine. Get up, get dressed, fool everyone, go to bed. Get up, get dressed, fool everyone, go to bed. Day after day, month after month, year after excruciating year.

He was falling apart at the seams.

He was only fooling everyone else. He could never hope to fool himself.

Nobody knew the pain he went through every day. No one saw behind the mask of perfect contentment, even thought it was beginning to crack, little by little.

They only saw what he wanted them to see.

He was ready to give up.

He dragged the chair from beneath the desk and brought it over to the corner. There was a thick rope tying back the heavy curtain that covered the window that looked out over the sparkling city of Menzoberranzan. He flung it over a rafter and began to knot it.

He was sick of it all. He had been happy, once. No longer. So why go through the pain anymore? He had tried everything he could think of—medicines, herbs, everything up to drugs and alcohol. Anything to numb the sting of despair. But nothing worked. Nothing at all.

He was tired of pretending, tired of plastering on the same fake smile each day. If he wanted to be rid of it all, he could very well manage it. He was ready.

He stood up on the chair and carefully slipped the noose around his slim neck. He tightened it.

One deep breath, and he kicked the chair from beneath his feet.


End file.
